


Bonding Exercises

by istie



Series: Shoes Make the Man [3]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Copious amounts of alcohol - Freeform, Cruise ship shenanigans, Formalwear, Hidden Relationships, Karaoke, M/M, Verbal Sparring, attempts at shower sex, everyone is extra, the heels make a comeback, the shoe feud continues, towel folding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-13 08:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istie/pseuds/istie
Summary: Ryan and Shane have been keeping their new relationship low-key, so as not to upset the balance at the office.  But when Ryan's not-at-all-serious suggestion that Buzzfeed send them on a cruise as a bonding-exercise-cum-vacation gets taken seriously, things get a little out of hand.





	1. The Flip Flops Cometh [Ryan]

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third instalment in the "Shane wears shoes that drive Ryan mad" series, once again inspired by my lovelies over on the Discord. <3

It was supposed to be a joke, Ryan thought as the shuttle van pulled up to the cruise port.  “Those ships are bigger than God,” he said dryly, staring out the window.  “ _Jesus_.”

Shane, sitting beside him, legs awkwardly bent up behind the seat, snorted.  “Not wrong, Bergara, not wrong.”

Devon, sitting one row up, grinned.  “I’m looking forward to it, aren’t you?  It’s gonna be so much fun!  I’m totally gonna get a massage.  Teej, you should get a beard facial!”  Teej snickered in response.

Ryan shook his head slowly.  “I hope you’re right, Devon.”

Shane elbowed him in the side.  “Don’t worry, Ry, I’ll make sure the toothpaste is carefully secured.”

“Shut up, Shane,” he fired back without too much rancour, elbowing him back.  Then the driver parked the van, and these particular eight members of the Unsolved crew climbed out of the van, pulling their suitcases out of the trunk and heading into the port. 

A _joke_ , Ryan thought again, he’d meant it as a _joke._   “We’re thinking of sending our big-name show crews for some bonding exercises and vacation time,” one of the big execs had said to him.  “Any ideas?”  He’d shrugged, grinned, and suggested a weekend in the Caribbean.  “Oh, that’s a great idea!” the exec had beamed.  “I’ll have my assistant look into it!”

Now here they were, in Galveston, about to board a cruise ship and sail to Mexico.  After some discussion, Buzzfeed had booked them a block of very simple cabins – two to a room, single porthole.  The fun was to be had on the upper decks, after all – no need for fancy rooms.  As a result, Ryan was about to embark on an almost-all-expenses-paid vacation … and he was sharing a room with Shane, because of course he was.

They finally made it through security screening, and crossed the gangplank to the boat.  The magnificence, the _opulence_ , was shocking, and Ryan overheard someone complaining that they liked the bigger ships better— there were _bigger ships_?  Good God.  The Buzzfeed crew made their way to the lower decks, finding their block of rooms, and Shane opened the door to their cabin.

“Ah, the beds are pushed together,” Shane said, walking in and setting his carry-on suitcase on the little couch.  “D’you wanna ask housekeeping, get them moved apart?”  He turned and winked at Ryan. 

Ryan followed him in, looking around, then laughed at Shane’s comment.  “Nah, I wouldn’t bother.  No one’s gonna be in here but us, and they all know we sleep in the same bed on shoots.  We’ll be able to keep it on the down-low still.  Wanna go get a drink?”

“Oh, are we getting a head start?  Drinking before we’ve even left port?”  Shane grinned.

Ryan grinned back.  “This ship has a robotic bartender, Shane, you bet your ass I’m getting a drink from it.”

* * *

Hours later, after their first dinner on the ship, as they were peaceably making their way through the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, Ryan was sipping a drink and chatting with Teej and Devon on the promenade, watching the sunset, when the unmistakable Slenderman-but-more-awkward figure of his co-host strolled up.  Shane stretched out in the lounger next to him, and—

“Shane, what the _fuck_ are your shoes?” TJ asked incredulously. 

Ryan looked: Shane had kicked off the flip-flops he’d been wearing all day; they were now lying at the foot of his chair.  “… Did you honestly get hot daga-themed flip flops?  I can’t even believe you, man.”  He looked up at Shane and just shook his head.

Shane laughed.  “I saw them on Amazon and I just had to!  They’re so cute!”  The offending shoes in question had soles covered in huge clipart hot dogs in buns, one to each shoe; the straps, which Ryan had taken to be slightly tacky red and yellow rick-rack, were clearly meant to be ketchup and mustard.

“This is an affront to fashion,” Ryan sputtered, “this is – this is—”

“Worse than the Crocs?” Shane inquired, eyebrows raised, the picture of innocence.  “Can such a thing be?”

“Oh God, I don’t even know, you uncultured swine.”  Ryan covered his face with his hands, shaking it in despair.

“Excuse me?” came the incredulous response from his right.  “ _Uncultured swine?”_

Ryan looked back up to see Shane’s eyebrows almost to his hairline.  “You heard me,” he said, doubling down on the bit.  “Crocs?  Hot dog flip flops?  What’s next?  Please tell me you brought something halfway decent to wear; there _is_ a formal night on this cruise – and they _don’t_ count Hawaiian shirts and skinny jeans!”

“This from the man who wears so many goddamn muscle shirts that we had to add one to the merch line?  I hardly think I’m the uncultured swine of our duo; I looked _damn fine_ in those jeans and my large floral print even had a French tuck, thank you very much.” 

Shane looked like he was honestly getting a bit fired up; Ryan wavered, but plunged ahead.  “French tuck?  You had no such thing!  Don’t hide your fashion faux-pas behind fancy footwork!”

“You’d know about fancy footwork, you— you sneakerhead!”  This was it – Ryan had him on the ropes.  The _ropes_.

“You know what?”  Ryan said, sitting up in his chair.  “You don’t get to come back to our room—” he leaned forward, snatching the keycard from Shane’s breast pocket— “until you find better shoes!  I acknowledge my muscle-shirt-wearing ways are hardly haute couture, but I will— I will not let this offense to the name of shoes stand!” 

“Oh, it is _on_ , Ryan!”  Shane stood up, slipped his godawful flip-flops on, and stared daggers down at Ryan. 

“Yeah?  I can’t wait to see what you try to dish out, big man!”  Ryan waved the card at him.  “You know where to find me.”

“Just you wait, you little shit.”  Shane narrowed his eyes at him, then stalked away. 

Ryan settled back into his chair and finally looked over at Devon and TJ.  Devon’s eyebrows were raised slightly; TJ was looking at his phone. 

“You okay?” Devon asked.  “That got a little… intense.”

Ryan shrugged.  “Eh.  Sometimes our bits get a little out of hand.  It’ll be chill.  He’ll come back with something even more awful, we’ll laugh about it.”

* * *

It was well past eleven now, and Shane still hadn’t come back.  TJ and Devon had long since left, opting to head for a leaving-port party in one of the lounges; Ryan felt he had to stay where he’d told Shane he would be.  But as he started to yawn, he shook his head, got up, and headed down to their cabin.  He must have gotten another card from guest services, Ryan reasoned, or else he was partying too.  Shane was an adult and could take care of himself.  It would be fine.  He just wouldn’t do the deadbolt on the door. 

He sat down on the bed, bit his lip, and sighed.  Maybe he _had_ gone too far.  But those stupid shoes…

Actually, Ryan thought, what if Shane had been and gone already?  Maybe he’d left a note?  Ryan cast an eye around the room – Shane had stayed to unpack after Ryan had taken off with Devon and Teej, so maybe… “Oh my God,” he breathed, his eyes catching a flash of red inside the closet door, which was slightly ajar.

He stood up and crossed the room, opening the door – and sure enough, there were the shoes.  The five-inch blood red heels Eugene had found for Shane for that stupid murder strut video.  The shoes that had made Ryan eat half of that sinfully decadent chocolate cake – and resulted in the complete upheaval of their working relationship to _relationship-_ relationship, which they were still keeping professionally quiet.

Ryan’s heart sank.  He had this awful feeling that he really _had_ gone too far this time.  Something he’d said had really bothered Shane, and he wasn’t coming home— or, rather, to the cabin.  Whatever had made him think the word _home_?

He stripped to his boxer shorts and climbed into bed, and fell into a fitful sleep, hoping every time he turned over that he’d find a warm, long-limbed body next to him to cuddle.

* * *

Earlier...

` [19.30] theteegeman: have your phone on standby, they're at it again `

` [19.40] markcelestino1: ?? `

` [19.44] theteegeman: prime bts material `

` [19.44] theteegeman: the shoe feud continues `

` [19.48] markcelestino1: oh god `

` [19.48] markcelestino1: we're on vacation!  `

` [19.52] theteegeman: bet you three top-shelf tequilas this is the one `

` [19.53] theteegeman: everyone will know they're shacking up by the end of the trip `

` [19.57] markcelestino1: why `

` [20.00] theteegeman: the tension is so thick i could cut it with a flip flop `

` [20.01] theteegeman: also there's an 80s karaoke night tomorrow and corporate's covering the liquor tab `

` [20.03] markcelestino1: ...  `

` [20.04] markcelestino1: Bonnie Tyler's coming out, isn't she `

` [20.07] theteegeman: like i said `

` [20.08] theteegeman: camera at the ready `

` [20.10] markcelestino1: you got it boss `

` [20.15] dcjoralmon: you guys `

` [20.16] dcjoralmon: can we not just let them bone in peace `

` [20.17] markcelestino1: no `

` [20.17] theteegeman: *hell* no `


	2. Shuffleboard and Chill [Shane]

Shane muttered to himself as he stalked away from Devon, Teej, and Ryan. “Uncultured swine, my _ass_. Those muscle shirts are more of an affront to fashion than anything _I_ ever wear. Dammit Ryan.” He huffed. “You didn’t need to be such a dick, they were just a joke.”

He slumped down into a chair on the opposite side of the deck, well out of sight of his friends. He was next to a shuffleboard court, in fact, where a group of older folks were enjoying a late-night game. He watched them for a moment or two, letting the anger leave him and moving on to … that was a good question, actually. Moving on to what? What was he going to do? Ryan had his keycard, which also functioned as his onboard credit card – and his actual credit card was back in the room. So unless he had any cash in his pockets, there was no way he could get any new shoes, and he’d just have to wait until Ryan felt the bit was over.

He kept watching the shuffleboarders. Someone scored. He had no idea how this game worked, but several of the people cheered while others groaned, and … and _money exchanged hands_. _Wait_ a second. He sat up, and started to pay real attention. Ten minutes of intense shuffleboard study later, he stood up.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, an easy smile on his face. “I’ve never played, but it looks fun.”

One of the women raised an eyebrow at him. “You got money to put on the line, son?”

Oh yeah, that was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? Shane stuck his hands in his pockets, and— _yes_. He pulled out his tiny little billfold, cracked it open – ten bucks. Not a whole lot, but enough to get started – and maybe get somewhere, if his luck held. He waved it.

“Alright, sonny boy,” one of the old men said, “you’re in.”

Shane cracked his knuckles. Good thing he was a quick study.

* * *

Two hours later, Shane took the stairs down to the shopping deck, three at a time, chuckling under his breath and counting up the pile of greenery in his billfold. “Twenty, forty, ninety, one hundred— ten, twenty, seventy, eighty, two hundred… two hundred fifty… _excellent_ ,” he muttered, “that should be more than enough for a pair of shoes, if anything’s still open.” He glanced around the deck, which was still busy, despite the relatively late hour – nearly nine PM. He wandered the deck – precious few shoes on board, it looked like, unless he was looking in the wrong places. The beachwear shop was closed, and that was the only place he spied a pair of flipflops in one of the displays: horribly marked up, of course, and probably not great quality, but perhaps navy blue and white would be enough of a step up for Ryan’s tastes?

He stopped in the middle of the deck, next to the tuxedo rental boutique. This was silly. He should just go back to the room, and tell Ryan he couldn’t get a new pair of shoes tonight as everything was closed, and he’d get some tomorrow. Or, better yet, he’d tell Ryan the bit was stupid and he had shoes and he’d wear them whether Ryan liked them or not.

Shane could feel himself getting bothered again. He wasn’t entirely sure why. It had clearly just been a bit! A silly fight, the way they always fought. Banter and flirting, that was all. So why was he so miffed at Ryan? And why was he seriously considering getting new shoes? Why had he just made _two hundred and fifty dollars_ at _shuffleboard_ so he could get new shoes, because Ryan had insulted the ones he had on?

He sat down in an armchair in one of the million onboard bars. He couldn’t buy a drink – they all had to go through the keycard. It let the bartenders cut you off that much more easily, if you were drunk and being a pain. So he watched the LEDs blink on the backsplash, and he let his mind wander. He chuckled his way through the 70s trivia that started up twenty minutes after he’d sat down, and before he knew it, it was past eleven and he was bushed.

He got up, stretched, cracked and popped all the stiff joints, and tiredly headed down to their deck. He paused in front of his and Ryan’s cabin door, raised his hand to knock… and then put it down again. He frowned. If Ryan was really mad at him, over this silly of a thing … he hadn’t seen Ryan at all since their little tiff. Granted, this ship was indeed _fucking huge_ , and it wouldn’t surprise Shane at all to go an entire day without seeing the same person twice, unless you specifically made plans to meet or just stuck together. But he had no way of knowing if Ryan was still bothered, or if he’d been serious about “don’t come back without better shoes”, and … Shane _really_ wanted to make him happy. What had begun as a sort of friends-with-benefits thing had started to blossom into some real deep feelings, and Shane had no interest in taking that lightly. He sighed, and rested his forehead on the door.

A voice from behind startled him. “You okay, man?” It was Teej. Shane turned to look at him. He looked a little tipsy, but not too far gone. “Ryan still have your card?”

“Yeah, he does.”

“No new shoes yet?” He gave him a lopsided grin. “I think he was joking, you know.” His words were a little slurred.

“Yeah, I think he was joking too, but … I don’t wanna be a dick, you know?” Even as he said it, he knew it was dumb. If anyone was being a dick in this situation, surely it was Ryan.

“Yeah,” Teej said. “Devon and Mark and I are going to a party. Wanna come?”

Shane mulled it over. “Nah, I don’t think so. I’m not super in the mood for partying, I’d harsh your vibe. I think I’ll just turn in. Thanks though.”

“… You can’t get into your room.” Teej was squinting at him.

“That is true. I … hadn’t gotten quite that far yet,” Shane admitted. “Any ideas?”

Teej reached into his pocket and pulled out his card. “Here. Sleep in our room for tonight. Mark’ll let both of us in later.”

“You sure?” Shane said, taking the card. “These cabins are barely built for two.”

“Yeah!” Teej replied. “One of us can sleep on the couch, it’s fine. Or I’ll guilt Ryan into letting you in when we get back.”

Shane couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright, if you insist.” Teej clapped him on the shoulder, then headed back to the upper decks. Shane wondered what he’d come down for in the first place, and considered running after him, but then shrugged. He’d come back if he needed anything. He let himself into Teej and Mark’s room, pulled the chair over to the end of the couch to make it _almost_ long enough, grabbed a spare blanket and pillow, and crashed.

* * *

He woke up the next morning to the sound of the shower and rolled over — and almost fell off the couch. Right. Teej and Mark’s room. Teej was still snoring, which meant Mark was the one in the shower. He got up, shook the stiffness out of his legs – he was really not meant to sleep on couches – and decided it was long past time to get this dumb bit over with. He opened the door and slipped out, heading down the hall to his and Ryan’s room. He knocked, waited, knocked again. He was just about to give up when the door cracked open, and he saw Ryan’s bleary face on the other side of it. “Morning,” he said.

Ryan blinked by way of greeting and opened the door all the way. He was in his boxers and had thrown a robe on overtop, and Shane would have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t sexy as hell with the bedhead – he clearly hadn’t showered before bed, and so his hair was a mess of day-old pomade – and that gorgeous expanse of tanned skin and muscle, and those beautiful brown eyes, still half-awake. “Where were you?” he finally asked, still not moving to let Shane into the room.

“I … slept in TJ and Mark’s room,” Shane admitted, feeling a little awkward. He’d expected Ryan to just let him in, but … clearly he wasn’t awake enough yet.

“… Why?”

Oh God, this was stupid. “Because by the time I had enough money to buy new shoes, all the shops were closed,” he said, “and … you said not to come back without new shoes.”

Ryan looked like he either didn’t understand what Shane was saying, or he was considering it intensely. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “And … do you have new shoes?”

Shane blinked at him. “… No? Nothing’s open yet. But I did make a couple hundred dollars playing shuffleboard, so … “

“You did what?”

“I made a couple hundred dollars playing shuffleboard.”

“… _How?_ ”

“Apparently old people on cruises bet on shuffleboard games.”

“You play shuffleboard?”

“I’m a quick study.” Shane shrugged. “Can I come in and change, Ryan? And maybe, like, have a shower?”

Ryan squinted at him. “Well … I guess I just said you couldn’t have your card until you got new shoes. So. I guess I keep your card, but you can come in.” He stepped back and pulled the door open with him.

Shane couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious, Ryan?” He walked in past him, shucking his shirt off and grabbing a new one from the closet. “I can’t tell if you’re still shitting for the bit, or if you’re just half-asleep, or what. And I’m not sure I like it, to be honest with you.” He turned around to face his cabinmate and boyfriend, doing his buttons up, as Ryan shut the door.

He couldn’t read the expression on Ryan’s face. After a moment of awkward silence, in which Shane finished buttoning his shirt and had moved on to changing his shorts, Ryan rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head. “No, you’re right, this was a stupid bit and I took it too far. I’m sorry, Shane. You don’t have to buy new shoes before I give you your card back, that’s dumb.” He turned to the desk, grabbed the card, and handed it to Shane. “I still think those flipflops are an abomination, but I’m not _that_ much of a dick.” He attempted a grin with some sparkle, and Shane gave him a half-smile in return.

“Tell you what,” Shane said, taking the card and slipping it into his pocket, “how about I make it up to you?”

Ryan frowned and looked puzzled. “Dude, _I_ was the one being an ass.”

Shane waved his hand. “I mean, you’re not wrong, but I’m not entirely innocent. I did totally buy these to drive you crazy, just like those stupid Crocs.”

“I _knew it_ —” Ryan started, the fire leaping into his eyes, “I _knew_ you did that on purpose—”

Shane held up a hand to stop him. “ _Anyway_ … I’ll cop to _some_ crimes of fashion.” He grinned. “So: I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

“You’ll see.”

“That sounds fuckin’ ominous, dude.” Ryan raised an eyebrow, amused.

Shane tapped his nose with a finger. “Just you wait, Ryan Bergara. Just you wait.”


	3. A Little Extra [Shane and Ryan]

Shane wasn't sure how he was gonna do this, not entirely, not without Ryan finding out too early and spoiling the surprise. But he did know the first step, which was making a reservation or two. He put his shoes on and headed out, cracking his back as he went. He was still pretty sore from sleeping on the couch – maybe he'd have a nap later in the day, or … oh, or he could make an appointment for a couples massage at the onboard spa. He could _feel_ himself Grinch-grinning as he walked down the carpeted hallway towards the elevators and stairs. Oh yes, oh, he'd make it up to Ryan. He would make it _so_ up to Ryan. If there was one thing Shane Madej was good at, it was being as extra as humanly possible.

He came to the handy iPads near the elevators, and logged in with his card. His plan, thus far, was as follows: get them both tuxedos and take Ryan to dinner. _Fancy_ dinner. Because it was _formal_ night. He hadn't decided if he was going to wear standard men's dress shoes with his tux, or if he'd pull out the heels … it would probably be best to save the heels for at least phase two, or even three, of the day's plans. He scrolled through the list of restaurants as he pondered the footwear conundrum, looking at his options. Mexican, that'd be appropriate, though the dress code was only smart casual – but, certainly an option … sushi? Hm, maybe. … _molecular gastronomy??_   Shane couldn't help himself: he snorted, Maybe if he was trying to prank Ryan? Or if this wasn't a surprise? He had a feeling that going with _molecular gastronomy_ would make for a fucking _hilarious_ evening, but … it wasn't what he was looking for.

… Ah _ha_. "The Chef's Table," he read. That sounded promising. "Formal attire, _prix fixe_ , gourmet," he muttered, continuing to read. "Located in an intimate, exclusive enclave throughout various spots onboard, this private epicurean experience for a limited number of guests treats you to a five-course menu and wine tasting…" He laughed to himself. "Oh my God, I love it. Oh, there's a menu, _brilliant_." He clicked through and scanned it, his grin growing ever wider. "Well call me a monkey's uncle, that actually sounds damn fine."

He clicked to make the reservation – eight in the evening, for himself and his cabinmate. Ninety-five dollars apiece, the display read, to be charged to his onboard account. He whistled softly. "Good thing I hustle shuffleboard," he murmured. Next up, tuxedo rentals…

* * *

A few minutes later, having made the reservations for the tuxes _and_ for those massages – singles, not couples, as all the couples spots were booked already, but that worked quite nicely with the plan he was formulating – Shane climbed a few decks, heading for guest services. "Hi," he said, "I need a hand surprising my boyfriend, and I'm wondering if you could give me some suggestions."

The friendly lady across the counter (her name tag said she was from the Czech Republic) gave him an odd look. "Ah, sir, I'm afraid we don't—"

Shane's eyes widened in shock as he realized what he'd _sounded_ like he was asking. "Oh God, oh I'm sorry, no no, that's not what I meant at all!" He grinned sheepishly. "I'm so sorry miss, I didn't mean— ah, I just made some reservations for he and I, and I was wondering if there was any way for me to, like, have a message delivered to him, or even if I could get some stationery to leave a sort of secret-admirer note. I just don't know what's available on the ship, that's all."

She smiled – Shane could see the relief in her eyes at not having to navigate a very awkward conversation. He wondered how many staff had to deal with that sort of thing, and how often. Probably a truly saddening amount of times. "Oh! I can certainly help you with that, sir. I can arrange to have a message delivered to your stateroom? That would likely be the easiest way, if you know he'll be in the room."

Shane considered it. "I think that's likely," he said. "Can I tell you what I want the note to say, and then … I dunno, have it sent with a bottle of wine or something?"

"Yes, most definitely. What would you like it to read? And what sort of wine?" She cracked her knuckles, and Shane thought she looked rather excited about the prospect. And, if he was being honest, he was rather excited about it too.

* * *

An hour later, Ryan was back in the stateroom, having gone to breakfast on the upper decks and then come back down to prep for a morning of leisurely sunbathing. He had just pulled on his swim trunks, and was putting his water bottle and his sunscreen into his bag, when there was a knock on the door. "Just a sec," he said, zipping the bag and tossing on an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt – which he realized, as he put it on, was one of Shane's – before opening the door.

He'd been expecting one of the crew, maybe Mark, since he'd said he'd come sunbathing with him, but instead it was a uniformed staff member. The suave-looking young man (whose name tag said he was from the Philippines) was holding a sort of serving tray with a bottle and an envelope on it. "Mr Bergara?" he asked.

"Uh, yes, that's me," Ryan said, holding the door open with his foot. "I don't think I called for anything, though, are you sure you have the right room?"

"Yes, this is room 3258, correct? Then this is most definitely for you, sir." He handed over the tray, which Ryan took, bemused.

"Um, thank you?" Ryan said, balancing the bottle on the tray. The envelope was unmarked save for the stateroom number, which was definitely 3258. "Do you know who it's from?"

"No, sir." He shook his head. "Enjoy! And have a wonderful day!" He turned and headed up the hall.

Ryan blinked, came inside, closed the door. He put the tray down on the table, and looked at the bottle. Champagne – not the ridiculously expensive bottles which he and Shane had looked at and proceeded to laugh themselves silly, but a bottle of decent quality bubbly nonetheless. He picked up the envelope and opened it, pulling out the contents: a single folded sheet of paper, which read:

> "Mr Ryan Bergara,
> 
> Your presence is humbly requested at the following engagements:
> 
> \- Perry Ellis, deck six, one in the afternoon, for a tuxedo fitting with Yuri;
> 
> \- Vitality Spa, deck eight, four-thirty in the afternoon, for a 90-minute Swedish massage with Caroline;
> 
> \- at the base of the aft grand staircase, eight in the evening, for a rendezvous with your mutual admirer of props closets.
> 
> Yours always,
> 
> Hunter of the Winds"

As he started reading, Ryan's face was furrowed with puzzlement – but as he kept reading, it grew into a slow smile and then into an amused grin.

"Oh, Shane," he said, looking between the bottle and the letter, "you weren't kidding."

* * *

Meanwhile, several decks up, Shane was in the tuxedo shop himself, being carefully measured by a similarly tall Russian man with a wrist cuff full of pins. "Now," Yuri was saying, "typically we recommend our clients make their tuxedo reservations before their cruise… luckily, you have the best Russian tailor in the Caribbean who is very, very familiar with tall men."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Yuri," Shane replied. _Cruise culture is fucking bizarre_ , he thought to himself. _This is possibly the strangest day of my life._

"What sort of a style were you looking for, Mr Madej?" Yuri inquired, making notes on his little tablet. "Classic? Vintage? Contemporary?"

"Hm. Vintage? I'm told I look good in a vintage style." May as well start somewhere.

"Excellent." He slipped his tape measure into his pocket. "I will return in just a moment with a suit for you." He disappeared into the back, and returned a minute later with a garment bag, which he hung on the hook next to Shane's 360-degree mirror, and unzipped to reveal an absolutely gorgeous suit. "This is our vintage style in a tall cut – hopefully it will require as few alterations as possible. Did you want it in black? We can also do gray or brown on rush notice, but most of our colour options would require pre-order."

"Black's fine," Shane said. "And shoes?"

"Square, wingtip, or Italian?"

"Yuri, I like you."

* * *

Hours later, after having all the tension wrung from his body by an expert masseuse _and_ having been fitted for a gorgeous [black Italian suit](http://www.efcftp.com/users/535/ftp/la-strada-black-tuxedo.jpg) by a sassy Russian man, Ryan was nervously standing at the foot of the grand staircase at the aft end of the ship. He was playing with his cufflinks – he'd almost talked himself out of bringing them, but something had told him he should: he had his own, a beautiful pair of onyx studs set in carbon steel which had been a Christmas gift one year. He'd polished them to a shine, as well as his best watch – which wasn't saying a whole lot, because he spent considerably more money on sneakers than watches, but it was a nice timepiece and he was proud of it.

It was seven-fifty-six. Shane's note had said eight o'clock on the nose. Ryan's tux had been delivered to their stateroom at the same time as Shane's, in an opaque garment bag. Shane had shown up a few minutes later, whisking the garment bag out with him as he went down the hall to TJ and Mark's room. "Can't have you peeking," he'd whispered in Ryan's ear as he swooped in and out like the giant bat he was, pecking him on the cheek as he went. God, that man made his heart flutter. Of course, he _had_ resisted the urge to peek in Shane's garment bag, so he figured he really did want to be surprised.

Seven-fifty-eight. He looked at his feet, his classic black shoes gleaming in the lights. He always felt just a little out of place in a suit – not overly so, and once he was comfortable he rocked it, but right now, while he was nervous about just what Shane had in mind for the evening, and just nervous about Shane in general, right now he was nervous as hell. He scuffed his toe on the floor, then looked back up the staircase, watching for his partner—

Oh. There he was.

Ryan's heart flipped in his chest and he swallowed hard. Shane was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning against a pillar nonchalantly, looking out over the crowd for just a moment before looking down at Ryan with a slight smile. He was wearing a stunning [black vintage cut suit](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1vxwpQpXXXXb_XXXXq6xXFXXX7/Latest-Coat-Pant-Designs-Black-Italian-Men-Suit-Floral-Skinny-Classic-Custom-Tuxedo-Prom-Gentle-Blazer.jpg), complete with a dark red waistcoat with gold buttons and a gold chain disappearing into the vest pocket, and a black tie in a knot style Ryan couldn't discern from here – and as Shane turned and started walking down the stairs, Ryan saw the glint of gold on his cuffs as well, and the flash of well-polished black brogues on his feet. He'd styled his hair up a bit, still with the slight swoop over his forehead that made him look just that little bit dangerous. He descended the last couple steps, extended his arm to Ryan, and said, "Lovely evening for dinner, wouldn't you say?"

Ryan, not quite knowing what else to do and feeling like his heart was about to beat out of his chest, took Shane's arm and said, "Ah, um, yes – did you have somewhere in mind?"

Shane led him down the deck towards the outdoor section – Central Park, they called it. "I made us reservations. Only the best for you, darling."

 _Darling_? Ryan's wasn't even sure he was breathing anymore. For that matter, he wasn't at all sure whether this whole escapade counted as a good or a bad idea anymore, either. Piss Shane off enough for him to take Ryan on what was possibly the most romantic date in the history of romance? It certainly made up for the tiff. And Ryan had the feeling this was barely the beginning. "So … " He trailed off on any further inquiry, as Shane had brought them to one of the white ivy-covered archways which stood at either end of the park, where a tall woman in a suit with no jacket was waiting, clearly for them.

"Messers Madej and Bergara?" she said, her British accent sharp and clear. Her nametag read _Estelle_.

"That would be us," Shane replied smoothly. Ryan was glad: he didn't trust his tongue to work in the slightest.

The woman led them through the archway and through a glass door that Ryan hadn't even noticed was there, into a little nook, clearly a private dining room. There were only a few small tables in the room, all separated by deep burgundy curtains edged in black. Each table was lit by a small chandelier, and as Estelle brought them to their table Ryan saw that one of the alcoves actually had a string quartet set up inside of it, which was providing, of course, live music.

Shane stepped ahead of Ryan and Estelle and drew out a chair from the table for two: Ryan, fighting to keep the blush off his face (though it was probably dark enough that it wouldn't be noticed), sat down. Shane took his own seat, and Estelle snapped their napkins out smartly and laid them across both their laps. "Welcome to the chef's table," she said, "my name is Estelle. If you need anything at all during your meal, please don't hesitate to ask. I will return shortly with your first course."

"Thank you, Estelle," Shane said with a smile. Estelle swept off into another alcove – presumably with a back door to a kitchen – and he turned his attention to Ryan. "So," he said, "how was your day?"

Ryan laughed, still feeling a little stunned. "Great," he started, "but nothing compared to the evening so far."

"I'm glad to hear it," Shane replied, and Ryan could swear his eyes were literally smouldering. "I told you I'd pull out all the stops, and I absolutely meant it."

"Consider my stops pulled," Ryan said breathlessly. "I should let you piss me off more often."

Shane's face broke into a grin, his eyes crinkling. Ryan was grateful – it was a brief reprieve from the unending sexual tension that was making him extremely glad for the napkin over his lap.

Estelle returned a moment later with a basket of warm, fresh bread, and ice-cold water, which was only the beginning of a beautiful two and a half hours of gourmet enjoyment. First came a scallop carpaccio, thinly sliced scallops drizzled with a citrus dressing and topped with toasted quinoa, with a glass of Californian Chardonnay; the second course, a smoked tomato soup with garlic focaccia croutons and fresh Parmesan (neither of them had known you could smoke tomatoes: apparently you could), paired with a rosé from Provence; third course ("How many courses _are_ there, Shane?" "Five!" "Do they all come with wine?" "They sure do!"), a Maine lobster salad with a Caribbean twist, including hearts of palm and tiny shreds of pineapple, lightly tossed with a vanilla bean dressing and sprinkled with cilantro – paired with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc.

Ryan was sorely tempted to lick his salad plate, but settled on dredging up the last of the incredible flavour combinations with a spare piece of sourdough bread. He was beginning to feel pleasantly buzzed – the wines had been excellently paired with their respective courses, and he and his conversation partner had been keeping up a steady enough stream of discussion that while enjoying every bite, he'd barely felt time passing. Shane had a light flush on his cheeks; whether that was the wine or Shane's romantic leanings, Ryan couldn't tell. In any case, he suspected himself to be fairly glowing. "Do you have any plans for after dinner?" Ryan asked, polishing off the piece of bread.

Shane's answer was interrupted by the arrival, once again, of Estelle, this time carrying their fourth course: filet mignon with sides of truffled potatoes and asparagus, a gorgeous rich Bordelaise sauce poured overtop, with a glass of Australian Shiraz. After thanking her, Shane smiled at Ryan, curled his long fingers around the bowl of his wineglass delicately, and lifted it. He'd been leaning _hard_ into the suave gentleman vibe this evening, even while they discussed cinema, the food, their vacation dreams. "I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise: I'm here to spoil _you_. Cheers."

The final course was, naturally, dessert: a selection of gourmet petits-fours in every flavour imaginable – strawberries coated in chocolate and sprinkled with chopped hazelnuts, lemon meringue cheesecake bites, raspberries dipped in white chocolate, tiny pieces of blueberry graham crumble with Venetian custard cream – and the _pièce de resistance,_ dulce de leche gelato topped with a piece of Valrhona dark chocolate and salted caramel sauce. Paired, one last time, with a glass of champagne. Ryan insisted on feeding Shane some of the gelato; Shane fired back, his eyes twinkling in the light of the chandelier, by tracing one of the chocolate-covered raspberries over Ryan's lips before popping it into his mouth.

By the time Estelle had cleared the dessert plates, Ryan was about ready to slam Shane up against a wall and get it on regardless of propriety: the five glasses of wine, the incredible food, the ultra-romantic setting … Shane teasing him gently for two and a half hours straight … As they got up to leave, thanking Estelle profusely for the wonderful evening, Ryan took Shane's hand in his, oh-so-gently letting his fingertips play along his partner's knuckles. "So, Mr Madej," he murmured as they exited back into the park, "what after-dinner entertainments did you have planned?"

Shane slowly rubbed the pad of his thumb across the back of Ryan's hand: his fingers were so damn long. He didn't answer for a moment, then turned and took Ryan's other hand. Ryan felt himself get all warm again, his heart picking up the pace as Shane leaned in close, whispering into his ear.

Ryan blinked. This night clearly wasn't finished with its surprises.


End file.
